


The Hounds of The Baskervilles

by SnakeAssassins



Category: The Glass Scientists (Webcomic)
Genre: Gen, uhhhhhh probably more things will be tagged later when I'm less than four pages in
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-13
Updated: 2018-11-13
Packaged: 2019-08-22 23:32:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16607504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SnakeAssassins/pseuds/SnakeAssassins
Summary: The Hound of the Baskervilles but it takes place in the tgs universe. Jekyll is taking the place of Watson for the most part





	The Hounds of The Baskervilles

**Author's Note:**

> uhhhh this has been sitting in my drafts for a while and I've been meaning to work on it for ages. now that I'm catching up I figured I'd post what I had so that people can at least bother me into finishing it. A bunch of aspects of what sabrina initially planned for holmes will be different, some for plot reasons, others inspirations from various niche sherlock holmes materials
> 
> (as a side note: sabrina if you are for some reason reading this and need like a repository on holmesian resources for your comic I would be more than willing to help you)

My dearest Lanyon,

I regret to inform you that I will be taking a leave of absence due to some unexpected business in Dartmoor. Until my return, I leave all responsibilities associated with the society of arcane sciences to you and my newfound acquaintance, Sherlock Holmes. An explanation as to my actions shall be contained in the enclosed document.

Sincerely,  
Dr. Henry Jekyll

——————-

Lanyon, I am sure you of all people are familiar with a man named Sherlock Holmes. Half of London’s high society seems to have his information hidden in some discrete location, should they forced to confront a situation too scandalous to be handed over quietly to open police records. I feel that I should calm your nerves here. My involvement is nothing quite so bad as that.

As it stands, I have often found the rumors surrounding this Holmes figure to be uniquely fascinating. He is almost a celebrity among enigmas. There seems to be some odd story about him, his identity, and his actions-some supernatural, others not-emerging at least once a week, but not once have I seen him in so much as a footnote of him in the local newspapers. All traces of him seem to disappear the moment those queer incidents he is involved with are resolved.

I should emphasize, then, what a unique surprise to me it was for me to receive a telegram from him inviting me to his home.

And I guarantee you, that feeling was nothing compared to the act of actually meeting him.

I went out to Baker Street (just a few houses down from Mme. Tussaud’s old place, mind you) in our standard omnibus. I stepped out and knocked on the door as any human being would. What I was given could hardly be called a greeting.

I said a few scarce words before an arm shot out from behind the door and dragged me into the foyer. The person looming over me spoke, their hand still gripped tightly around my ascot:

“You’re late.”

Holmes had a strange taste in butlers. That’s what I assumed at first. The person “greeting” me was very prim and plain-looking, save for the almost comical bowtie they were wearing. I could hardly give you a description of their face, as they themself had a mop of shaggy, curly hair obscuring everything above their nose. However, there was a mischievous glint behind those curtains I was all too familiar with. My curiosity had been piqued.

“My apologies. As the proprietor of an entire society I am a busy man.”

“As am I,” replied the stranger.

I attempted to recover my lost graces with my usual act. My flowery tone didn’t seem to be getting me through.

“A-anyway, it seems as if we’ve started off on the wrong foot. I’m Doctor Henry Jekyll. I have an appointment here.”

“I know.”

“... I was hoping to speak with Mr Sherlock Holmes.”

“You are.”

“Ah…” I didn’t know how to recover from that.

Holmes did not seem to care.

“Come upstairs. Our client is waiting for us there.”

I followed obediently.

Holmes’s residence did not seem to be a place that often had visitors. I would hesitate to even call it hospitable. 

You know me, Lanyon. I am used to disorganized, untidy spaces. They are practically a hallmark of any rogue scientist. I would have greeted it with a sense of familiarity had it not been for the banality of its contents. I can comprehend why a scientist on the verge of a major breakthrough would be reckless with the placing of their research material. I could not tell you what research could be had from ten different tobacco pipes, a rusty bicycle pump, a mantelpiece that had been stabbed with every knife imaginable, a Stradivarius violin, and six miniature statuettes of Napoleon Bonaparte. I assumed the papers (many of which were labeled “classified” for some reason) were for research on something, but that did not explain why they were strewn across any surface that would hold them.

The only flat surfaces spared of this fate were a few sofas and a coffee table. A mousy, spectacled man sat in one of them.

“Well Stapleton,” said Holmes, “I told you the only person who would care about your story would be some fanciful dreamer who spent his life chasing fairytales, so I went out and got one.”

He gestured to me.

“...Henry Jekyll,” I said, holding out my hand to the in a vain attempt to maintain some semblance of congeniality.

Stapleton shook it fervently.

“I’m well aware! I’ve been a fan of yours for quite some time!” he said.

“Are you a scientist, then?”

“A cryptonaturalist, though I have done some small studies in genetics.”

“He’s here because of a murder,” chimed Holmes.

“We don’t know that for sure, yet,” corrected Stapleton, “It could be the work of the Hound.”

“Hound?” I said. We were finally approaching a topic I could enter gracefully.

“Oh don’t start with that again,” said Holmes abruptly.

“It stands as a fairly reasonable explan-“

“I mean that the newly appointed Lord Baskerville has yet to arrive, and I hardly see the point of telling the same story three times,” Holmes seethed kindly. “It’s inefficient.”

“...Perhaps,” said Stapleton,”but it isn’t as if we have anything better to do.”

“You don’t.”

And with that, Holmes began to sulk by the nearest window, his ironically Byron-esque frame highlighted by what little light the London smog would grace him.

“Don’t mind him. He’s pedantic, but he’s a good man where it counts.”

“Yes, well...“ I tried as best I could to mince words “...perhaps he is simply an acquired taste. But what was that you were saying? About a hound?”

Stapleton’s ears perked up. 

“Oh yes! I am sure a man of your nature will find this story thrilling! Let me take you back to the seventeenth century. Let me tell you a story. The Legend… of the Hound of the Baskervilles!”

Holmes groaned audibly.


End file.
